Claire POV
I woke to the smell of Katia's perfume on the pillow beside me. Evander must have carried me to the master bed after I'd fallen asleep—a performative act of a caring husband. The scent was a physical violation, crawling into my sinuses and making my stomach heave.
I threw back the covers and stumbled into the en-suite bathroom. I retched into the toilet, but only bile came up, a visceral rejection of the filth that had seeped into every corner of my life.
Wiping my mouth, I steadied myself on the marble vanity. My gaze drifted to the guest bathroom across the hall, the one Katia had clearly appropriated. The small trash can was overflowing. At the very top, nestled amongst used cotton pads, was a thin plastic stick.
A cold dread, sharper than heartbreak, pierced through me. I pulled on a pair of disposable rubber gloves from under the sink—a habit from my lab days—and walked into the other bathroom. My hand was steady as I plucked the object from the trash.
Two stark, pink lines.
Katia was pregnant.
The air left my lungs. This wasn't just an affair. It was a new life, a new future being built on the ruins of my own. Evander hadn't just betrayed me; he was replacing me.
"Claire? Are you alright?"
Evander's voice, thick with sleep, came from the bedroom doorway. He saw my pale face, my hand braced against the wall, and misinterpreted it.
He moved to support me, his hand warm on my arm. "Darling, you don't look well."
His touch felt like a spider crawling on my skin. I shifted away, breaking the contact.
"Just a little dizzy." The lie came easily, my supposed blindness a perfect excuse.
A flicker of guilt crossed his face. "Claire, I know I've been distant. Your birthday is next week. I'm throwing you a party, a proper gala. All of New York will be there. They'll see how much I adore you."
A bribe. A glittering distraction to soothe his conscience.
"I can make my own breakfast," I said, my voice flat, moving past him toward the kitchen. Every independent step was a severing of a tie.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up and walked onto the balcony, believing the glass door offered privacy from a blind woman. But my vision was sharp, and my other senses were sharper.
His voice was a low murmur. I heard every word.
"Katia, don't be difficult… Yes, I slept in the same bed with her, but it was just to keep things stable… The baby… we'll talk about the baby after her birthday party. Just be patient."
Stable. I was a problem to be contained.
I stood motionless in the kitchen, my hand on the refrigerator door. I poured myself a glass of orange juice, my movements fluid and precise. The acid burned my raw throat.
The plan in my mind, a rough sketch, began to crystallize. It was no longer just about leaving. It was about dismantling his world as thoroughly as he had dismantled mine. The baby made it imperative that I leave him with nothing.
Evander came back inside, all smiles. He tried to wrap his arms around me from behind. He carried the scent of two different women. It was nauseating.
I allowed the embrace, my body rigid, my mind a cold machine calculating the best places to hide micro-cameras. The library, his study, this bedroom.
"I promise," he whispered into my hair, his breath stale with whiskey, "it will be a night you'll never forget."
Oh, I believed him.
I feigned exhaustion and retreated to the guest room, locking the door. I lay on the bed, listening to him on the phone, orchestrating the party with tyrannical precision. I heard him arrange for Katia to be moved into another suite in the penthouse, officially installing her under our roof.
This wasn't my home anymore. It was their nest.
I looked at the calendar on my phone. Seven days until my birthday. Seven days to gather the evidence I needed to burn his empire to the ground.
Freedom was one week away.
